


Forget-Me-Nots and Narcissus

by triggerlil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Classical Music, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Piano Player Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Summer, Wakes & Funerals, Wand Maker Harry Potter, Wandmaking (Harry Potter), Work partners - Freeform, apple picking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil
Summary: His long pale fingers travelled across the keys, the sound of the piano cresting and falling, one moment soft and enticing, in the next fast and sure. The first few buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing a pale chest and thin lines of scars; the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal strong forearms, one marred by a smudge of black ink.Or in which Draco is overcome by grief, and Harry is there to keep him afloat.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 86
Collections: Very Drarry Summer Vibes 2020





	Forget-Me-Nots and Narcissus

**Author's Note:**

> An accompanying playlist featuring pieces referenced in this fic: [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCmXlahDInYQVT7lj87tLa37jOOaU0vW-)
> 
> This is a gift for no one in particular, but every amazing person who makes the GWB discord so lovely to be in. If you're part of GWB (or even if you're not) and no matter how long you've been there, if this resonates with you, then it's for you. 
> 
> To the GWB, you all are like a family to me, through highs and lows, silliness and anger, we support each other, confide in one another, and laugh together. I honestly don't know what I would do without you all, and some of you especially have honestly influenced who I am today. 
> 
> Thank you to D and A for the quick betas. 
> 
> A huge thank you to L and R. Without you this fic would not be what it is today. Thank you so much for your friendship, your wisdom, and your company, I feel privileged every day for having met you two. 
> 
> With love and tenderness,  
> your mystery author  
> xoxo

**August 5th, 2016**

Sun filtered into the studio, dancing with each movement of the lace curtain at the open window and illuminating particles of dust floating through the room. Cicadas droned in the trees outside, birds chirping sporadically. Summer was doing its best to breach the walls of the house, whose occupants—for now—remained immune. 

A weave of spellwork surrounded the house: tangled blue webs of protective wards, the organized pink of temperature charms, a spattering of lime green for connection to the floo network, dots of white monitoring a large collection of house plants. 

Vines climbed up to the second story, framing the windows and threatening to swallow the house’s east wall. The front garden overflowed with flowers of all kinds: geraniums, lavender and nepeta, pink roses and blue salvia, white hydrangeas, red astilbes, lilies, and phlox. It was an organised chaos dropped into the countryside, the house bursting with the life of its surroundings. 

In the back garden, next to a vegetable patch, stood a greenhouse; wide leaves pressed up against the glass walls, plants within moving of their own accord. A web of pink, white, and blue magic enveloped the glass, a swirling pattern of spellwork. 

The summer tried in vain to breach the final frontier of the country home; summer bugs occasionally flying in through open windows, dirt entering on bare feet, sun streaming in with unparalleled ferociousness. 

Yet the sounds of summer were contested: through a crackling radio came the sparkling voice of a single violin, and sitting at a black piano, which was cleaned to a pristine shine, sat a blond man. 

His long pale fingers travelled across the keys, the sound of the piano cresting and falling, one moment soft and enticing, in the next fast and sure. The first few buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing a pale chest and thin lines of scars; the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal strong forearms, one marred by a smudge of black ink. His left hand seemed to flow effortlessly across the keys, his right imbued with the energy of each note, feet tapping excitedly on the pedals. 

It was a song that he had been trying to play for some time, and today of all days, it had to be perfect. It was a song that elicited emotions from him he wanted to tamp down. 

He leaned into the end of the movement, and the violin faded from the radio. He sat still at the keys, staring down at the sheet music in front of him which he had long ago stopped using. He had practiced this piece inside and out; he felt it coursing through his veins in rhythm with his heart beat. With a prolonged sigh and a creaking of old floorboards, Draco stood up and turned off the radio. 

The house settled into the newfound silence, and Draco leaned on the windowsill, a warm breeze playing with the strands of hair that had fallen into his face. 

Draco didn’t turn around when he heard Harry pad into the room, just closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. 

“How’s practice going, love?” Harry asked, sidling up behind and resting his forehead gently against Draco’s back. 

“Good,” Draco murmured, grounding himself in their connection, letting his mind settle from the music and fall back down to earth—to Harry. “I think I’m ready.” 

Harry let out a breath of relief that tickled the skin of Draco’s back, sending a shiver up to his ears. 

In truth, Harry had been standing outside the door for some time. He had been doing so every morning for months, listening to Draco attempt to play this piece. 

Some days Draco stumbled through a complete rendition, others he got through the first movement perfectly and gave up, and on the worst days—days where Harry took Draco into his arms and let the man weep—he sat at the piano for what felt like hours, never pressing a single key.

“Should we have some tea first?” Harry asked softly. 

Draco turned and caught Harry's mouth in a kiss, feeling Harry's breath of surprise and then the softening of his lips as he let Draco in. Draco cupped the back of Harry's head, fingers tangling in Harry's obnoxious curls as he leaned into the kiss, into Harry, stroking the slick warmth of tongue and teeth.

They kissed in the heat of the day, and when they parted for breath, both their cheeks were flushed. 

~~~

**January 21st, 2016 - Seven Months Ago**

Big heaps of snow piled high against the sides of the house, with blade-like icicles hanging from the eaves, and the crinkled, brown branches of sleeping trees reaching out from blinding whiteness. 

The world was still and silent—as it always feels in the midst of winter—the earth slumbering underneath the heaviness of snow.

A window pane on the second floor was fogged up with steam, puffs of snow melting against the warm glass.

The shadow of a figure moved behind the glass—Harry. 

He trailed a hand down Draco’s spine, his fingers gently pressing into each curve of bone, leaving white prints along Draco’s pinkening back. 

Shuffling forward, he reached around his partner for the shampoo, holding Draco steady under the incessant stream of hot water. Droplets reached out towards Harry, trying to coax him under, but the whole room was already warm, his fingers pruning and cheeks hot. 

Harry silked up his hands with the expensive stuff Draco had gotten from Pansy for Christmas. It was violet with a pearlescent sheen, and Harry slowly massaged it into Draco’s scalp, running his fingers through each strand of hair. 

Draco’s shoulders curved under the pressure of Harry’s massage, but there was otherwise no acknowledgement from the man. He stared at the tiled wall with an unfocused and blank gaze, ignoring the scalding water. 

Harry used one hand to cover Draco’s eyes, not trusting him to close them, and gently dipped his head under the water, rinsing out the shampoo. Harry was certainly not being artistic enough about it, ruffling Draco’s hair and dragging his hands through awkwardly, but he hoped it would suffice; it would be a miracle if Draco came around enough to complain. 

Harry missed the usual snark, the minor jabs and petty quips. He had taken for granted Draco’s wonderfully clipped voice, the way it could light a fire under his skin that was both painful and erotic, send ice rushing through his veins with a dose of competitiveness. 

Even their house missed Draco’s personality. Each snowflake that beat against the house was a prayer for normalcy, each footprint Harry left in the drive begged for the return of his lover, and every dead flower that Harry found while cleaning the snow sent a pang through his heart. 

He hated to see Draco like this and wished he could do anything to make the man feel better. But this was something Draco had to go through, and Harry would be there for him until he came around. He would pull Draco’s pliant body into the shower, scourgify his teeth, make him tea and cut his toast into triangles, put on the wireless and lay with him in bed, clean the house and run the errands, see to guests and accept condolences. Harry would be everything that Draco needed him to be until the time came when—like the world waking up from winter—he shook off the snow and began to move. 

~~~

**August 5th, 2016**

Draco breathed in deeply, collecting himself, bringing all his pieces back together. When he opened his eyes, they were playful, and he cocked his head, as if to say ‘what about that tea?’ Harry laughed and turned around, heading into the kitchen. 

Harry still had on his work apron tied in a bow at the back, and Draco’s gaze was caught on the two ends of the cord that trailed down to his arse. It was unfair that Harry had as lovely an arse as he did, when Draco’s was so small. Though that never stopped Harry from appreciating it.

Draco smiled to himself as Harry put the kettle to boil and, humming, got down the loose leaf earl grey, pulled the milk out of the fridge, and brought the sugar bowl towards himself. 

Draco leaned on the counter and crossed his arms, content to watch Harry work: the movement in his biceps, the curl of hair at the nape of his neck, the prickling of stubble on his chin, and his long dark eyelashes. Draco even loved to look at Harry’s ears, how a few stray curls fell over them, and how they looked so soft that Draco was always tempted to nibble on them no matter the occasion. Before he’d had his visual fill, Harry turned to Draco. 

“Did I tell you what wood I decided on?” Harry asked, handing over a strong earl grey with a splash of milk. 

Draco shook his head as he accepted the cup, holding the rising steam away from his already warm face. 

“Black walnut,” Harry said, a familiar passion animating his voice. “It matches the powerful crescendos of the piece and similarly isn’t easy to master, but is sincere and very handsome. I really like this one, Draco, I can’t wait for you to see.” 

Draco gave a half-smile, one that promised things to come later that night, when they were both curled up in bed, the hardness of Harry’s cock pressed into the cleft of Draco’s arse, Harry’s fingers trailing lightly along Draco’s sides. 

Harry pushed off from the counter. “I’m actually going to go get my stuff, I’ll meet you in the piano room?” 

Draco nodded, and Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead as he passed. 

~~~

Harry climbed the creaky staircase up to his workshop in the attic. Draco liked to keep the house clean, bustling through with dusting spells and levitating things into their homes the moment they got out of place. Harry supposed it was a byproduct of living with house-elves for the majority of your life—finding the joy in purpose and routine, feeling like you could think better in a clean atmosphere because that’s what you're used to. Harry helped for the most part, tidying up after himself  _ almost _ all the time, generally not leaving his dirty socks on the floor a foot away from the laundry bin, and only on occasion forgetting to put a dishwashing charm on the sink when it was his turn to tidy after dinner. 

Maybe it was a byproduct of living with the Dursleys—always being forced to tidy up after them, never allowed to make his own mess or live on his own terms—because his workshop was best described as “lived-in”. 

A mahogany desk sat beneath the window overlooking the backyard. It was piled with books and notebooks, quills, pens, and all of his finer tools clustered in little jars. On the walls hung various photos and memorabilia: he and Draco at the beach in Italy, his parents, various candids of Ron and Hermione, pressed and dried forget-me-nots in a very tiny frame. They were displaced by shelves of varying size, containing bits and bobs of all kinds: a vial of unicorn hair, rows of different varnishes and dyes, scattered pepper-up potions, unopened boxes of sandpaper, a tea tin repurposed into a spare quill holder, and amid the clutter, on its own shelf, a long black case. 

He picked up his most recent wand from his workbench, conjuring a light so he could inspect his craftsmanship one last time. It was an admirable piece of work, one of his finest to date. The black walnut was smooth and dark, the patterns he had carefully etched into the curved handle only appearing as he turned the wand in the light. Overall, the wand gave off a refined and powerful aura. It was going to be a masterful witch, wizard, or wix, who bonded with this wand, he was sure. Now… All it needed was a core. 

Humming a refrain from the sonata, Harry took down the case from the wall, setting it on his workbench. He opened it slowly, enjoying the creak of hinges—nestled within the forest green velvet lay a violin. It was too shiny and ethereal to be any old violin, and Harry took it from the case gently, inspecting it like he would his wands. It had been a long time since he’d taken out this instrument, and he felt a familiar chord thrum in his chest to be holding it in his hands once more. When he seemed pleased, he took both the violin, along with its bow, and the black walnut wand downstairs, forgetting about his tea completely. 

~~~

**Beginning of January**

The keys clutched in his palm were forgotten when Harry arrived home that evening. They clattered to the floor with a metallic ringing, but Harry stumbled over the threshold without noticing. The front door had been open when he pulled up the drive, puffs of snow and cold wind rushing into the front foyer.

A tingling of foreboding shot through Harry’s spine. Draco was supposed to be home right now—he’d been home alone all day—but Harry got the sense that no one else was in the house. 

“Draco?” Harry called, voice straining as he tried to remain calm. He rushed upstairs without taking off his wet boots, pushing open each door he came across and doing a sweep before hurrying to the next: the guest bedroom, their bedroom, the bathroom. Harry even went all the way up to his study, but of course Draco wasn’t buried in the piles of paper and wood shavings. 

Truly worried now, Harry’s heartbeat stuttered frantically, his mind rushing through scenarios, each one more terrible than the last. 

Draco wasn’t in the living room, or the piano room, or the dining room, or the kitchen. 

Harry barrelled out the back door, and that was where he found him.

Snow had piled high in the back garden and there was at least a foot of powder. With every step, Harry sunk up to his knees, calves burning as he tried to push through the cold. 

In the center of the backyard was a shadow, a dent in the snow, swatches of black and blond sticking out from the white. Fear pinched every nerve in Harry’s body, the cold so acute Harry thought he might burn up and fade away. 

Draco lay encased in snow, pink lips tinged a faded blue, ice crystalized delicately on his lashes, and his gaze turned blankly upwards. 

As Harry sank to his knees, Draco blinked slowly, and took a shallow breath. With a trembling hand, Harry pressed his palm to Draco’s cheek—he felt frozen. 

“Draco, baby, did you even cast a warming charm?” Harry croaked, now taking Draco’s head in his hands, turning his lover to face him. “Draco?” 

Harry left the house with both doors open and snow melting in the front foyer. He took Draco’s stiff and cold body in his arms and apparated to St. Mungos. 

The moment he landed in the waiting room, Draco was put to sleep and levitated away in a golden light, surrounded by hovering charts and diagnostic charms. 

Harry paced outside the emergency care ward, chewing on his thumbnail. Draco hated when he did that, a terrible habit he said, one that wasn’t fitting of a grown arsed adult. But since Draco was currently in a magically induced sleep, potentially fighting for his life, Harry thought he could get away with it. 

Sue Li had been a Ravenclaw in Harry and Draco’s year, and he hated to admit it, but he couldn’t remember ever once interacting with her. When she approached him in the hall, he had to quickly glance at her name tag and back up. Her face was stern, not betraying a single element of worry or hope. Her hair had been long and black at Hogwarts, or at least Harry thought, but she had turned it into a pixie cut that he thought quite suited her. 

“Mr. Potter?” She asked, voice perfectly level. 

“Yes? Is Draco alright?” 

Sue nodded, motioning for Harry to follow her into the room. “His vitals are stable and he’ll be just fine. He’s still asleep, but he should wake up in five minutes or so.” 

“What was wrong?” Harry asked nervously, rubbing the pad of his index finger over the now shredded tip of his thumb. 

“Nothing magic related,” Sue said, flipping through a few pages on her clipboard. “It seems he suffered from a panic attack of sorts. You’re lucky you found him when you did. He had just reached stage three hypothermia.” 

She pulled back the curtain to Draco’s bedside, and it was all Harry could do not to collapse at Draco’s side. 

Harry sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair, watching Sue wave her wand to check Draco’s charts once more. 

“What would have made him panic like that?” Harry asked. Draco’s face had regained some of its colour, his lips back to their normal pink. Harry gently brushed Draco’s fringe off his forehead, Draco’s eyelids fluttering for a moment, before settling once more. 

Sue vanished the charts and stood next to Harry, placing one hand on his shoulder. Her grip was firm but comforting, and Harry hadn’t realised how much adrenaline was rushing through him until he felt himself beginning to crash into her touch, his entire body trembling. 

“I regret to be the one to inform you, but his mother died very early this morning. I believe one of my co-workers notified him of her passing only a few hours before you found him.” 

An uncomfortable weight settled in Harry’s stomach, a hard pit of surprise. 

“But… She was completely fine the last time we saw her!” 

Sue nodded sympathetically, squeezing his shoulder. “I only just had the files sent to me, and it seems many thought she was making a full recovery. But she took a turn for the worse last night.”

The hard pit expanded, turning into a sharp and frigid anger. 

“Why weren’t we informed?” Harry asked harshly. “Draco is her  _ son _ , he should have been here.” He couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice, but Sue didn’t pull away. She kept her hand there, the only lifeline keeping Harry’s emotions from swallowing him whole. 

“There was a note on her papers.” Sue’s expression twisted with pity. “She explicitly asked Draco not be called for.” 

“What?” 

“She was a dignified woman, and from what I’ve been told, she was proud of her son. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine she had her reasons for keeping her own counsel.” 

Harry shook off Sue’s hand, dropping his head into his hands. “What did she even die from? I don’t think she ever even told Draco how bad it was.” 

Sue raised an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“I don’t know.” Harry shuddered. “She always just said she had a check-up, or that it was her age catching up with her.” 

Sue tapped her wand to her clipboard—it was hazelwood, at least 13”, and seemed to have quite bendy flexibility—even in his anxious state, Harry couldn’t help watching. As a new set of records pooled on the paper at her touch, he imagined she had a unicorn tail hair core if she had gotten it from Ollivander. Or perhaps something rarer, like Snallygaster heartstring, if she had gotten it elsewhere. 

“We’re unsure when Draco will recover from his shock well enough to process the information surrounding his mother’s death. Hopefully, in you knowing, you’ll be able to help him come to terms with it, without causing further duress.” 

The clipboard rattled as Harry took it, his hands shaking profusely. The words swam in front of him.  _ Blood curse, twenty-five years, Voldemort, frequent check ins, worsening condition, no cure yet discovered, blood transfusions and replenishing potions.  _

“I don’t understand,” Harry whispered. 

And of course he didn’t. 

~~~

Narccisa Malfoy (née Black) died on a biting dawn in January, snowflakes brushing up against the frosted window pane soundlessly as she took her last breaths. With the last thrumming of her heart, pulse stilling, white sunlight scattered across glittering snow, and the sky turned a pale lavender. 

Her last thoughts were about her son. 

She was so happy he had finally found someone whom he loved, and who loved him in return, and that he had decided on his passion in life and sought it out. 

In the darkness of her closed eyes, mind swinging as the threads of her life began to snap, one after the other, she saw him. He was five years old, sitting at the ancient Malfoy piano, warm sunlight making his platinum blond hair shine. 

She stood in the doorway, just watching. There were books stacked beneath him since he was too small to reach the keys, and his feet dangled above the pedals. His tiny pink tongue was stuck out in concentration, as he tried to read the music in front of him. 

In the hospital room, she couldn’t hear the sounds of diagnostic charms beeping, signaling the end. With a soft exhale, another string keeping her in the land of the living snapped. But what she was hearing in her mind went something like this: plink, plink, plonk, a smattering of notes across the piano, and a giggle. 

In the memory her laugh was airy and full of joy, the way it had sounded before Voldemort had fully taken over her husband’s mind with his ideologies, before she had stayed up every night worrying for her family’s life, before she had gotten sick. She swept over to her son, scooting in beside him on the bench. 

“You mustn't wrestle with the music, Draco.” She smiled down at him, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Treat the piano and your music like a partner, or your very best friend. You need to share with them, and work with them.” 

Draco turned to the piano, pouting. 

“Look,” she said softly. “Like this.” 

She took in a deep, satisfying breath and held her hands delicately above the keys. As she exhaled, she reached for the notes and drew them into herself. She let it flow through her, tapping lightly on the pedal. 

The sound of Narcissa Malfoy’s music could best be described as a summer stroll, her fingers didn’t dance across the keys, so much as they skipped and walked. Her song felt like heading down a pebbled path while holding hands with your lover, a willow tree arching over a clear pond, and your baby wrapping their tiny fist around your finger for the very first time. 

Her son looked up at her in awe, small mouth hanging open, grey eyes wide with excitement. 

“You see, Draco?” 

He nodded frantically, and brought his hands to the keys. Narcissa was amazed at how big he’d gotten, fingers able to reach across nearly six notes. Hadn’t she just propped him up on starchy white hospital sheets in St. Mungos, only one hand held around his frail body, his baby head lolling to the side, a trail of ultra-fine hairs sticking to his head? 

Yes, it had only been yesterday, she thought, and now here he was, learning to play Chopin, learning to express himself through music, just as she had hoped. 

When Draco finished playing, Narcissa swept him up into her arms, his laugh pure and unburdened by trauma. She sat him on her hip and walked him to the window, so they could look over the grounds together, and to remind herself she could; that he was still her small, baby boy.

How could anyone understand this? That Narcissa had requested Draco not to see her in her final moments, yet she had thought about him all the same. 

Because Narcissa Malfoy, above all things, wanted her son to be happy. She was a dignified woman, she valued intellect and class, and she didn’t want her only son to see her lying in bed struggling to breathe, sparse grey hairs on her head, cheeks hollowed, and arms so thin she could wrap her entire fist around them. 

She wanted him to remember her as she had been in the beginning. The woman who healed his cuts and bruises, sometimes with magic, more often with a kiss, and who could hoist him onto her hip and wipe away his tears. 

How could Harry understand that? No one had ever done that for him. It was something he hadn’t even known he was missing. 

And as Harry had been hiding out in the forest, hunting for Horcruxes with Ron and Hermione, Narcissa Malfoy had been trying desperately to protect what mattered most to her in the world. 

~~~

“A slow acting blood curse,” Harry said, staring down at the clipboard in disbelief. 

“It’s believed that Voldemort cast it as punishment at some point during his occupation of Malfoy Manor,” Sue clarified. 

“So she’s known… She’s known for years that she was dying, and she never told Draco.” 

Sue nodded, taking the clipboard. Harry’s arms fell limply at his sides. 

“I’ll give you some time,” she said, and with another quick squeeze of his shoulder, she slipped between the curtains and was gone. 

Before he could think and stop himself, Harry gently climbed into bed next to Draco. Nudging him over, Harry lay on his side in the gap between Draco and the bedside table. 

Nestled on the bed, Harry placed his hand on Draco’s chest, to feel the rise and fall of breath. He exhaled in relief at the warmth he felt through Draco’s hospital gown. 

Harry doubted Draco could hear him, let alone understand what he was saying, but he murmured into his partner’s ear nonetheless. “We’ll get through this, love,” Harry said softly. “You’re going to be just fine.” 

And that was the truth of it. Neither Harry nor Draco were strangers to grief. Draco could hide from the world as he tried to process, but even in the throes of suffering, he knew it couldn’t be forever. 

~~~

**February - Six Months Ago, One Month After Narcissa’s Death**

“Draco, stop it!” Harry shouted, slamming open the door to the piano room. 

Draco stood with a brick in his hand, and the piano in front of him smashed to pieces. The piano passed down to him from his mother, the piano he had played for all thirty-three years of his practicing. 

“Voldemort can have it,” Draco spat, shoulders quivering. “He took everything else from me, he might as well take my music.” 

Harry picked slowly through the wreckage, over the broken bench, the scattered keys, and the snapped strings of the piano’s innards. Gently, he pried the brick from Draco’s hand and vanished it. He pulled his wand out from behind his ear, murmuring a healing spell to Draco’s bleeding palms. 

“Come here,” Harry said, and wrapped his arms around Draco. They slid to the floor, and Draco cried for the first time since his mother’s death. Full bodied sobs that shook him. He cried and hiccoughed until he was hoarse, and Harry held him close as he did so. 

“She sent me—” Draco eventually sniffed through the tears. “She sent me a letter.” 

Harry saw it across the room, resting on top of a pile of loose sheet music. 

“What did it say?” 

“She told—She told me.” Draco shook his head, nuzzling into Harry’s chest. 

“Shh,” Harry whispered into Draco’s hair. “You don’t have to tell me yet.” 

Draco let out another shaky sob, tears wetting through the thin fabric of Harry’s shirt. Harry knew what it felt like to cry like this, the burning in the back of your throat, the constriction every time you tried to talk. He rubbed soothing circles on Draco’s back as they sat among the wreckage. 

“What if—” Draco tried. “What if it doesn’t play the same.” 

“It will.”

“But what if it doesn’t? What if we can’t fix it?” 

“If there’s one thing I know about your mother, Draco, it’s that she wouldn’t just buy a muggle piano. Certainly, there’s spellwork in this one to make sure that even when it breaks, it still plays just as well.” 

Draco sniffled, the sadness beginning to ebb out of him, to be replaced with emptiness. 

Draco would never tell Harry what the letter said. A week later he would pass it over silently, so Harry could read it himself. Draco would never say out loud the contents of the letter, for it would always be too raw, too soon.

Harry held the parchment in his hand, smoothing his thumb over the worn surface. It felt like Narcissa had handled it many times, perhaps reading and re-reading her words, hoping they would be enough to soothe her son whenever the curse finally called on her. 

Of course it wasn’t enough. Harry had to spell the letter back together a few too many times after Draco ripped it to shreds in a fit of rage. 

After he had realised that anger at a dead villain was going to do nothing to help him heal, Draco’s anger had turned on Narcissa. 

“Do you know what my last words were to her?” Draco said quietly one night, snuggled deep in the blankets of their bed next to Harry. 

Harry rolled over to meet Draco’s gaze, his lover’s outline blurred in the dark and for the lack of glasses. “What?” 

“I yelled at her through the floo. I didn’t even get to touch her or see her physically, just her face hovering above the fireplace.” 

Harry balled their duvet into his fists. 

“She was bailing out of tea, again, and said she wasn’t coming to my concert because she’d forgotten about plans with Pansy’s mother.” Draco rolled back over to stare at the ceiling, but Harry remained watchful. The way Draco scrunched up his nose, the exact same way that Narcissa always had, like there was something foul just beneath. “Of course she didn’t actually have any plans, she was going to St. Mungos. Because she was dying.” 

“That’s not your fault, Draco.” 

“I know,” Draco said, brows furrowing. “She should have told me.” 

“She should have.”

“What did she think? That I couldn’t handle it? Did she think I was too weak?” 

“No.” 

“She saw how well I handled father’s death, and he died behind bars, of course I could handle it.” 

Draco turned over and shook off any of Harry’s attempts for comfort or closeness. 

Whenever Draco was mad, Harry liked to make wands. Medium wands and long wands, bendy wands and rigid wands. He liked to feel the wood coming to life under his fingers as he whittled it down, and he liked the satisfaction of sitting back, and knowing he had created something that would change a child’s life. 

Harry sat in his studio and shaved a piece of wood, relishing the feel of its grain and the smell of the shavings. 

~~~

**March - Five Months Ago, Two Months after Narcissa’s Death**

Harry walked through the orchard down the road, sweet juice coating his tongue as he took another satisfying bite out of the apple in his hand. It was a family-run wizarding farm. They had a selection of trees producing apples at evey time of the year, even in winter when their popular frosted variety grew, and the family was particularly fond of Harry and Draco.

The next wand he had in mind would be European applewood, a perfectly medium length, moderately swishy, and have a twist of apple leaves carved into the handle.

Quite a few summers ago, Draco had been practicing Miroirs: III. Une barque sur l’océan. The opening of that piece, the softness of it, and the way it intensified like a summer storm, was exactly what Harry wanted whoever bonded with this wand to feel. It would’ve been nice to hear the song again before he started working. 

Unfortunately, Draco had still not touched the piano. 

He would get up in the middle of the night or early in the morning and sit in front of it, but be unable to play a single note. Harry had watched him try. A tension would collect in Draco’s forehead, lift his forearms so slightly it was an almost imperceptible movement, and then… Nothing. He had yet to get farther than that. 

“Found anything?” Draco asked, walking towards Harry. He had a woven basket hanging off one arm, already a few apples nestled within. 

Harry swallowed, grinning as Draco gave him a scornful look. “Not yet.” 

“Tell me again,” Draco said, waving his wand to pull a beautiful looking apple, red and round, down and into the basket. “How you choose the wood.” His face was drawn into perfect blankness, one eyebrow raised. 

“Well,” Harry said, vanishing his apple core and coming up beside Draco. “It takes years of experience to tell.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, but Harry could see the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Only some trees produce wand wood,” Harry continued. “Just like how very few people are born with magic. If you look at the tree just so, there’s a sort of sheen to it, like the air around it is quivering ever so slightly.” 

“So you don’t see any right now?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes at the tree in front of them. 

Harry shook his head and cast a cleaning charm on his hands. He intertwined their fingers, pulling Draco deeper into the orchard. “The easiest way is if you find a bowtruckle nest, because they only like trees with magical energy. But they don’t live around here, so you have to rely on a wandmaker's eye.” Harry tapped his temple, making Draco huff and roll his eyes again. Harry smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. 

The sharp March sunlight accentuated the dark circles under Draco’s eyes, bruises streaked across pale skin, and his gaunt cheeks cast shadows along his jaw. Apparently even leaving behind the dregs of winter couldn’t bring colour to Draco’s appearance just yet. 

Harry was alright with that. This was the first time they’d been out in a month, except to go to Narcissa’s funeral. 

For a little while they walked in comfortable silence. The only sounds were the susurrating apple trees, crunching leaves beneath their feet, and the distant singing of birds. 

Harry’s gaze swept over every tree—waiting for that subtle shimmer, a trembling of magic. 

When he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, they kept walking, and while they walked, Harry thought of the funeral. 

~~~

Narcissa had looked like porcelain, surrounded by lilies in the Manor sunroom, briefly emptied and turned into a visitation area. Draco had chosen one of her favourite black evening dresses; lace vines climbing up her neck, long flowing sleeves, and green thread so dark it was nearly invisible woven into the skirt, patterns of falling leaves, vines woven through blooming orchids. 

It was a small, quiet event on the tail end of January. A cold sunlight fell across the Manor grounds as the guests made their way through the house. Dark winter robes were discarded in piles on the drawing-room couch, soles of boots scourgified, as everyone arrived in the sunroom.

Draco and Harry stood to the side of Narcissa’s casket, and the guests lined up behind. Harry had never been to a traditional pureblood funeral. The war had been so filled with death that each funeral afterwards, one after the other, had blended into a great mass of overshadowing grief. 

Now, Harry watched as people stepped up to Narcissa, and after bowing their heads, lay gifts at her feet. 

First, it was Ron and Hermione, dressed in refined black muggle clothes. Hermione placed a bouquet of dusted pink roses at the base of her coffin, Ron nestling a polished moonstone within its leaves. “To help her intuition in the Afterlife,” Ron said, lightly squeezing Draco’s shoulder. 

Then it was the Parkinsons in their traditional black funeral robes: long sleeves that enveloped their hands, the crest of Parkinson on their chest, and dark silver buttons. They had come forward as one; Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson, and Pansy. Next to Hermione’s roses, they placed a smooth grey stone, a forked pattern etched in a crackling blue across the surface. 

“So she may find radiance,” Mrs. Parkinson had said, clasping Draco’s hands. Mr. Parkinson nodded, and when they had passed, Pansy had stood there awkwardly before enveloping Draco in a hug. 

Draco froze, posture rigid and face closed, until he finally reached up and gave her back three gentle pats. She squeezed him tight, once, and then with tears in her eyes went to the other side of the sunroom where there was tea, coffee, and Kreacher’s baked goods laid out for the guests. 

Harry watched Pansy cut a piece of lavender tart forcefully, before shoving the whole thing into her mouth, tears still shining at the corners of her eyes. 

He turned as now Blaise stepped up, dressed in a simple black suit that fit him perfectly. He placed down a single silver rose. Despite being polished to a gleaming brightness, it was so intricate it seemed to breathe with life. There were even crystalized dewdrops on its metallic petals.

Blaise reached out and took Draco’s hand, holding it between them. “For eternal beauty,” Blaise said, and for a long time they stood there. And Harry knew that they weren’t just shaking hands, but holding each other, as they must have done long ago, before the possibility of being with Harry had even been a flicker in Draco’s mind. 

When Blaise finally let go, he moved away towards Pansy without another word. 

Taking his place were the Greengrasses. First Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass, heads bowed in dark navy and icy blue funeral robes, presented a piece of uncut aquamarine nestled in a golden bed, glittering like ice. 

“For calm and courage,” they said, nodding once at Draco before going to join the Parkinsons. 

Daphne and her sister Astoria placed down a bouquet of lilies, white roses, and statice—drops of blue blood in a world of snow. 

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” Daphne said, before moving on. Astoria stood longer, lips pressed in a thin line. She looked ghostly, her dark hair standing out starkly against her pale skin. She had on a simple slip dress, and her wrists poked out of her sleeves, pale blue veins vivid. 

She lingered, and perhaps it was because she was on the brink of death herself, or perhaps because she had always been empathetic and caring where her sister was cold, Draco reached out and pulled her in. 

He held her gently, as if she might break apart under his fingers, turn into flakes of ash and float down like snowflakes. She rubbed a soothing line up and down his back until they finally let go of each other, and then with a sad smile, she went to find her family. 

There was now a low hum of voices in the room, as next the Nott family arrived, bringing a small bottle of perfume that smelled of citrus and marine. For longevity. 

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Theo said, his voice perfectly level. 

Draco nodded, his actions on auto pilot. “Thank you, my mother would appreciate you being here.” 

Finally, there were only two people left, and they walked up to Narcissa’s casket in a yellow so bright it was blinding. 

Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood. 

Xenophillius produced a bundle of dried herbs. There was rosemary and vervain, lilac and thyme, as well as some which Harry didn’t recognize: little blue bells that glowed from within, and a straight pale stalk with a closed bud. The whole bundle was tied with a golden yellow bow, accented with a charm of the deathly hallows. 

“Draco, I am truly sorry,” Xenophilius said, and he tucked a few tiny stalks of thyme into Draco’s robe pocket. “For protection. Wrackspurts will try to get at you while you’re grieving, but you mustn't let them.”

“Thank you…” Draco replied. Xenophilius seemed so filled with genuine concern that it was hard to even be bemused at the mention of wrackspurts. If anything, that tiny piece of normalcy was something that Harry figured Draco had sorely missed. 

Luna produced a tiny silver lantern. It was producing a warm orange light, but there seemed to be no particular light source within. The lantern had no patterns or accents, and it was even tarnished at the corners, the tiny looped handle dull from use. 

Luna placed it gently among all the flowers, and then bent down to Narcissa’s ear, whispering something that Harry couldn’t hear, which was all for the best, as it wasn’t his to know. 

“Draco,” Luna said kindly, her long hair braided down her back, silver half-moons dangling from her ears. “I trust my father informed you of your wrackspurts?” 

“He did.” 

Luna inclined her head with a melancholic tug of her lips. “I know you have Harry, Draco, but really if there’s ever anything you need, we’re here.” 

“Thank you, Luna,” Draco replied, and because she had chosen to wear yellow to Narcissa Malfoy’s funeral, he added. “I really appreciate that.” 

Luna nodded, and then asked a question that Harry didn’t think he had actually heard all day. “Would you like a hug?” 

Draco opened his mouth. Plates and teacups rattled, voices hummed, and Draco faltered. 

“I—Yes, thank you, Luna.” 

“You’re welcome, Draco,” and then she hugged him, not too long and not too short. Draco leaned into it, let out a bone rattling sigh, and let go. She then gave Harry a quick hug too, which surprised him but felt warm and content. 

She found Blaise at the window with a cold tea, staring out into the garden of snow, and now it was just Draco and Harry. 

Draco placed a hand over Narcissa’s cold ones, clasped at her chest. 

“She looks like she could be sleeping,” he whispered. “Yet she’s here, and she’s cold, and…” 

Harry put an arm around his partner, because really, what else could he do? Harry was never good at grief, letting himself be swallowed by rage and suffering, and he was even worse at giving condolences. 

What Draco needed was someone to keep him steady, and Harry was that person. 

“I wasn’t sure what to get her, but I brought this,” Harry said. From a deep pocket in his funeral robes he pulled out a small cardboard box that fit in his palm. Gingerly, Harry opened it, and pulled out a tiny piano.

It was made of olivewood that he had carved and sanded down to a smooth finish. He had painstakingly carved out a full set of miniature keys, and reproduced the inside of a grand piano with the help of some refined magical whittling. He handed it to Draco, who turned the figure over, marveling. 

“What’s this?” Draco asked, as he looked down at a silver key. 

“You turn it,” Harry replied, “and it makes music.” 

Draco turned the key, once, twice, three times. From the piano came a soft twinkling, each ding tinged with melancholy. 

Draco pulled from his own pocket a folded piece of paper, and placed it at the base of the casket with the music box sitting atop it, still singing with soft chimes. 

Draco didn’t tell Harry what was in that letter to his mother, and Harry never asked. No one but Draco, and perhaps his mother, need ever know. 

They buried Narcissa in the Malfoy cemetery, next to her husband. They levitated her into the cold, hard earth, and when she had been covered anew with dirt and snow, if it weren’t for her tombstone, it would look as if she wasn’t there at all. 

No one spoke, or read, or talked of the life she had lived. They stood in silence and thought of her, and the presents that were nestled in the ground by her side—those which would last long after her body had decomposed. 

When the silence became too heavy with grief, Draco lifted his wand, and sent a bright red spark into the air. It hissed on the way up and went out with barely a whisper, sending down a shower of sparks over her grave.

Following his lead, everyone raised their wands, and filled the air with colour. 

Then they went inside, and Harry saw everyone out, as Draco stripped his robes and sat on the floor of their shower until the water ran cold. 

~~~

There it was, the faintest trembling of air, leaves that were ever so slightly more vibrant, apples that seemed to gleam just a little more, a smidgen of stronger pigmentation woven through each branch and strip of bark on the entire tree.

“You see that one?” Harry asked, shaking away the cloak of sorrow and nostalgia that had settled over him as they walked. 

Draco scanned the trees in front of them, and Harry watched closely, but his vision always snagged on entirely the wrong one. 

Harry dragged Draco forward until they were standing right in front of it. Harry placed a palm on the trunk, closing his eyes. If he focused, he could feel the ebb and flow of magic through the bark, like the water rushing up through its roots. 

He took Draco’s hand and pressed it up against the rough bark, covering it with his own. 

“Close your eyes, Draco,” Harry murmured. “Do you feel the magic?” 

Draco scrunched up his nose, and Harry willed that Draco feel it, that this tree and this life and this world come alive under Draco’s fingertips. 

“I don’t feel anything,” Draco huffed, pulling away agitatedly. 

“That’s alright.” Harry began examining the branches, looking for which would be best suited. “Maybe next time.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “That’s what you say every time.” 

“And I mean it every time,” Harry laughed. “You don’t just awaken to wood magic overnight.” 

Perhaps Draco never would. Perhaps this was something Harry would never be able to share, but there was no shame in that. The music which Draco played was equally as mysterious to him. 

He settled on a branch that bore no fruit, but was also the right circumference to be whittled down. With a quick severing charm, Harry had a wooden staff in hand. 

“You seem to have quite a haul,” Harry grinned, adding a few more apples from this tree, which promised to be extra crisp. 

“We can make pie,” Draco simpered, as they headed towards the cabin where they would pay. “And muffins.”

“We better add some apple cinnamon tarts for good measure,” Harry mused, already running through recipes in his head and the ingredients in their fridge. 

In the end, they paid for their winnings, Harry tipping generously for the wood, and made their way home. 

The pies and tarts and muffins never got made by either of them. In the end, Kreacher got fed up seeing the basket of preserved apples sitting in their kitchen, and with Harry’s permission, went on a baking spree himself. 

Warm tarts with a thin layer of cinnamon-scented apples atop buttery, flaky homemade crusts. Delightfully fresh and fruity apple blackberry crumble, with a smidge of sour cream whip. Comforting mugs of hot apple cider that went down smooth and lovely, drank curled up under blankets on the couch or at the kitchen table late into the night. Tender apple danishes with cream cheese filling, beautifully braided. 

And when there were no more dishes to make, and the apple basket was empty, and Harry had embedded the unicorn hair snugly in his latest wand, Draco still hadn’t touched his piano. 

~~~

**April - Four Months Ago, Three Months After Narcissa’s Death**

Rain spit against the roof, sheets of it falling outside the windows, flooding the gardens and grounding the birds in their trees. 

It was raining, but Harry was thrown backwards into winter. He remembered snow falling, and cold, and panic. Because as he stepped out the front door into the wet, Draco was laying on his back in the drive. Draco, the one who refused to garden without proper gloves, who hated kneeling because it made his pants damp, who cursed and used an umbrella charm the moment it started to mist. 

Draco, who was now laying in a puddle on the hard ground, letting the rain drench his slacks and button-up, fat drops hitting his face, making him squint and lick his lips. 

Harry stood over him, feeling the cold rain trickle under his jumper, beginning to soak through to his skin. The only grace was that his feet were bare. He didn’t ask Draco what he was doing, didn’t try to goad him inside. 

Harry tucked his glasses in his pocket, and lay down next to Draco. The ground pressed into his tailbone and shoulder blades, sent a dull ache through the back of his head. He could feel gravel sticking to the hem of his jumper and jeans. 

Draco didn’t look at Harry when he spoke, his voice raw. “What are you doing?” 

Harry squinted into the grey. His face tingled with each droplet, waiting for the one that landed directly in his eyes, which never came. “I’m joining you.” 

“Why?” 

Draco’s hand was cold when Harry took it and squeezed. “Because I don’t want you to be alone. And because I want to know why you’re out here.” 

Everything felt and sounded strange from the ground, droplets in puddles slapping in Harry’s ears, battering the roof of the car, slipping against the leaves of trees, banging on the roof of the house. Each nerve came alive like hot oil. 

And Draco just lay there as if he was impervious to it all. 

“I don’t—” Draco began, but the words that had been collecting in the hollow dip of his stomach were washed away like road grit, and he couldn’t collect them enough to leave his lips. “I don’t know.” 

“That’s fine.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hand again. He didn’t have to know. “The rain is warm.” 

Draco turned to look at Harry, as if he was only noticing he was there for the first time, eyes going soft around the corners. “It is,” he murmured. 

Harry’s heart melted through his ribcage to leak out over the drive. The smile he gave Draco was small, and fond, and tinged with only a little sadness. “Want to go inside?”

Draco managed a nod, and Harry stood up, body stiff with cold. Extending a hand to Draco, he helped him up, and with their fingers intertwined, walked through the haze of rain towards the house, into the front foyer. 

Harry cast a wandless drying charm on them both, even though Draco always complained that it made his hair fluffy. Then he called for Kreacher and asked for two mugs of honey and lemon in hot water to be brought to their room. 

The sounds of the house lulled them upwards, where they both stripped out of their clothes despite the dryness, the feeling of clinging and wet and damp still a ghost on their skin. Draco curled up under the duvet, and Harry went over to the wireless. 

“Anything you want to listen to, love?” 

When he got no response, Harry dialed through a few stations, before settling on something quiet and acoustic, accompanied by a woman’s high pitched and raspy voice. 

Sliding into bed with Draco, Harry sighed at the feeling of crisp, clean sheets against bare skin. He sunk back into the pillows, pulling Draco up to rest against his chest—so he could hear his heartbeat, steady and sure. 

Since Harry and Draco spent most of their time in their respective studies, their room was simple, but there were still little pointers of each man scattered throughout. A folder of marked up scores on Draco’s nightstand and a statue of Ganesha on Harry’s. There was a photograph of both of them and all their friends in the backyard—from a housewarming party when they first moved in—and a number of other photos, shrunk into tiny frames so they could fit on their night stands, or hung up around the room: the Order of the Phoenix from the first Wizarding War, Hermione and Ron’s wedding, Draco and his mother at one of his concerts, Luna, Ginny, Harry, and Draco at the beach, Blaise, Draco and Pansy at a Witch Weekly party, Hermione at the hospital holding Rose with Harry and Ron by her side. 

There was a small bookshelf with a few well worn volumes: Quidditch Through the Ages, The Art and Love of Wandmaking, Fundamentals of Piano Practice, the Mahabarata, and The Tales of Beedle the Bard, tastefully bookended to make space for more meaningful items. A golden snitch with its wings unfurled, Devil’s Ivy—its vines curling over the sides of the shelf—a crudely whittled wand, and a polished silver dragon. 

A circular mirror sat above their white dresser, where they stored boxers, soxs, and pajamas, atop of which Draco kept an assortment of accessories and make-up-esque potion pastes for concerts. A sticking charm kept an English Ivy at the corner, and next to it, a smoothed wooden tree, Draco’s rings hanging off of each branch. It had been an anniversary present from Harry, and was Draco’s favourite thing in the entire room, though if you asked him, he’d say the walk in closet, which was mostly just  _ his _ walk in closet, of which he afforded Harry a small slice.

“Would Masters be liking their tea?” Kreacher asked, apparating into their room with a sharp crack. 

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said, pressing one into Draco’s hands. 

“Will that be all?” 

“Yes. Thank you, Kreacher,” Draco said, voice like sandpaper. He blew on his steaming mug. 

Kreacher bowed low. “I hope Master Draco is feeling better soon.” With another crack, he disappeared. 

“You worry him, you know,” Harry smirked. “Poor Kreacher, having to look after a dramatic Black.” 

Draco took a delicate sip of his tea and Harry watched the other man's throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the beautiful curve of collar bone. 

“A witch out her grave is a ghost,” sang the woman on the radio. “And a ghost is a witch I forgot, and I forgot how to love when she left, so I left myself to rot."

Draco grabbed for his wand on the bedside table, tea sloshing precariously, and flicked the radio dial. It spun loosely, static and voices coming out in an amalgamated mess. The wireless landed on a classical music station and an orchestra began to waltz through the room. 

Leaning back, Draco closed his eyes, and Harry watched the music wash over him, thoughts fluttering behind his eyelids, feeling pinched at the corners of his lips. 

The lemon tea was smooth and sweet, warming Harry from the inside out. 

"This is the first time I've listened to classical since she died, or music, even," Draco whispered. 

They lay in bed, listening, until Draco fell asleep on Harry's shoulder, tear tracks dried at the corner of his eyes, and Harry gently pried the mug out of Draco's slender fingers.

Narcissa's hands had been the same. With piano-playing fingers and nails she kept short, she had taken Harry's hands in hers and smiled. "Please take care of my son." 

~~~

**May - Three Months Ago, Four Months after Narcissa’s Death**

Harry felt the soil under his fingernails, chilled and damp, all the elements that made up the ground—tiny stones, bits of dried leaves, plant debris, the death that would later lead to new life. 

A vinyl record scratched and hummed—they had levitated it out to the garden to sit in the sun near where they were working. With a bit of mechanical magic from Seamus, it played without the amplifier and speakers. 

The album playing right now was something French, an old Malfoy record that Harry didn’t understand, though he could appreciate the smooth and full saxophone. 

Draco knelt beside him, cushioning charm under his knees, and pulled weeds from around where the lavender would grow. There were bags of fertilizer and sprouts in plastic pots waiting patiently to be transplanted. Most of their garden, both food and flower, survived the winter with well laced preservation charms. Then all they had to do was carefully unravel the threads of magic, loosen up the hard ground, and freshen up with water and a bit of tender loving care. 

Yet Harry always came back from seeing Neville with a new breed of some sort, and Luna loved to floo through and press plants into Draco’s hands, chattering on about their healing properties and atmospheric improvements.

So every spring, they expanded the garden and made room for their new additions. It was something that Draco had to learn to love, and Harry had felt privileged to watch the transition.

The Malfoy’s house elves had tended to the grounds, and Narcissa had had a private gardener for the sun room, so there’d never been a need for Draco to get his hands dirty. There’d been herbology, and that was fun, but that was school—a requirement—and as such, different. And well, by Draco’s sixth year… He was dirtying his hands in other ways. No time for gardening. 

Harry, however, had grown up gardening for Aunt Petunia. Instead of feeling resentment towards the ground—in the way that he still had to repress a shudder when passing any sort of storage space under a set of stairs—he felt at home. It’d been a reprieve in his youth, to quietly plant and tend, to be trusted with something other than hand me downs. No matter how hard the Dursleys tried to hide his presence in the house, he still survived secretly in the flowers that bloomed. 

Harry and Draco worked together in contented silence, occasionally breaking for a pass of the watering can, or to budge over a bit. 

Of course, Harry watched Draco out of the corner of his eye: the way he stilled when he reached the Narcissus that Luna had brought a week ago, how he seemed more inclined to bury his hands and wiggle his fingers in the dirt, the way that he swayed to the music, a sight Harry hadn’t seen in months. 

They sat back for a while, wiping sweat from their brows, as Kreacher brought out a pitcher of iced pink lemonade, which somehow always tasted better than the yellow kind. 

“It feels good, you know,” Draco said, wiping idly at the condensation on his glass. “In a way it didn’t before.” 

Harry said nothing. The ice cubes in his glass clinked gently as he brought it to his mouth. He didn’t miss the way Draco’s eyes darted to his lips, or how Draco swiped his tongue over his own. They hadn’t done anything more intimate than a kiss and a cuddle in a long while. 

Draco sipped at his lemonade. “I suppose with gardening… I feel closer to her somehow.” 

“When I first started gardening I felt that way too. Like the new life I was creating was a testament to my parents giving up theirs for mine. Not that I’d known they had back then, but all the same.” 

“Yes, that.” Draco gave a tight smile, but it dropped from his face as quickly as it came. “This shoot of basil is going to grow and nourish us, it’ll create something of itself, regardless of who lives and dies, regardless of the world, it’ll carry on the best it can.” 

Harry inclined his head. “Like you.” 

Draco’s lips curled wrly. “I’m not like that.” 

“Of course you are.” Harry stroked the tiny leaves of the basil. “Despite everything, you’re still here.” They both knew that Harry wasn’t just talking about Narcissa, that even though they’ve been together for some ten years, they still talked in riddles, glowing beneath the surface of their words the truth that they wished to say. 

“But I spent that whole month—” 

“You spent it grieving, like anyone would.” 

“You had to look after me that whole time,” Draco whispered. 

Harry took Draco’s hand, squeezing. “And I would do it all again, over and over, every time.” 

“Harry…” 

Draco surged forward, capturing Harry’s lips, stealing the last hints of lemonade left on Harry’s tongue, licking into his mouth and grasping at Harry’s curls despite the dirt covering his hands. 

“Bedroom—” Draco gasped, pulling away for only a second before his lips found Harry’s again, and they were turning on the spot, landing precariously in a tangle on the sheets. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t splinch—” Harry started, cut off by the feeling of Draco’s mouth and the way his hands tugged at Harry’s shirt, helping him pull it over his head. 

Harry shuffled back against the headboard, and Draco straddled his lap, unbuttoning his own shirt as Harry’s hands travelled up the knobs of Draco’s spine. He began to mouth along Draco’s shoulder, savouring the taste of his skin, the salt of working in the garden, kissing the dip of his collarbone and up to his jaw, nibbling on his ear and eliciting a shiver.

“Are you sure you want this?” Harry asked, voice low. Because he didn’t want Draco to be misdirecting his sorrow, and he didn’t want the man to regret it later, but if it would make Draco happy... Merlin, if it would make Draco happy he’d do anything. 

Harry pushed a loose strand of hair behind Draco’s ear, only to watch it fall back again. 

“Yes,” Draco replied, taking Harry’s hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. This was the intimacy that Harry’d been yearning for, flushed together and feeling the warmth of Draco on and around him. With the languid movements of a couple who have memorized each other’s breath, who can call to mind the beating of the other’s heart, the fluttering of a pulse beneath their fingertips, they fell into each other. 

Harry wordlessly and wandlessly vanished the lower half of their clothes, and the friction of their cocks made Draco whimper. 

“I want to feel normal again,” Draco said, faltering as a small moan escaped him. “I want—I need you inside me.” 

That was all the encouragement Harry needed.

Draco clutched Harry’s biceps as he rode him, and Harry traced the lines of silver scars—once points of guilt and shame, now turned erogenous in the face of healing—a steadfast connection between the two of them that crackled with energy on contact. 

Draco fucked like he was playing music, his dexterous fingers grappling for a hold, stroking out a rhythm and coaxing illicit notes from Harry’s lips. 

This wasn’t the slow and tender love-making that Harry had perhaps pictured as Draco slowly clawed his way out of grief. Not that they hadn’t shared those sorts of morning kisses and warm hugs since. This was pent up passion—rage and sadness—tunneled into a narrow length of desire that burned through them both. 

Not being together in so long had their orgasms rushing over them in minutes, collapsing together on the bed, sated exhaustion overtaking them. 

When Harry woke from that post-orgasm induced sleep, the other side of the bed was just beginning to cool. He slipped out from beneath the covers and crept downstairs, standing quietly in the hall. 

The sweet lilting of piano crept through the house—notes nervous, stilted, as if they weren’t sure they were allowed to be heard. 

Though the piece was airy and seemed bright to Harry’s untrained ear, there was an undercurrent of anguish that ran through each chord, a sorrow that rooted itself into the wood panels of the house, made Harry feel as if his skin was slick with cold rain. 

He didn’t look into the piano room, didn’t breach Draco’s personal moment, one step forward into healing. Instead, Harry quietly turned to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. He’d have a cup of tea ready under a stasis charm for whenever Draco was done. 

Harry’s eyes burned as he continued listening.

Despite everything that had happened between himself and Narcissa, they had become something like friends along the way. Harry couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but she had started treating him like a cherished son-in-law. 

He thought of her—how she held a teacup, delicately and with her pinky up, and how she would gently place it down to clink against her saucer so she could kindly pat Harry’s knee. 

Harry’s own grief layered onto his commiseration for Draco, until his throat felt thick and sore. 

The piano stopped and Harry slowly drank his cooling tea until Draco padded into the kitchen, and Harry held him as he cried.

They finished up in the garden the next day, and Draco didn’t play again for the rest of May.

~~~

**June - Two Months Ago, Five Months After Narcissa’s Death**

Draco’s birthday landed on a warm but overcast day, and he didn’t get out of bed for a long time. 

When the pipes in the upstairs started rattling, Harry knew to set the table for breakfast and put his card next to Draco’s coffee. 

Three fairies danced across the thick paper, their translucent wings fawning behind them, fluttering rapidly along with their leafy-green dresses, glitter covering them from tip to toe. Each fairy waved around a single forget-me-not clutched tightly in their tiny fists. 

And bursting over and over again read the words Happy Birthday in a shower of obnoxious golden sparks. 

The interior wasn’t much better. 

_ Have a very fairy birthday.  _

And Harry had added on to that: 

_ Happy Birthday Draco, I love you more than words can say,  _

_ Harry xx  _

He had a present already sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, an assortment of sweets hidden underneath Slytherin green tissue paper. 

“What’s all this?” Draco smirked, hair still shower damp, blond strands curling at his ears. 

Harry licked his lips.

“It’s really nothing.” 

Draco sat and took a hesitant sip of coffee. “It doesn’t look like nothing.” 

Harry shrugged, distracting his hands with his own mug. “Open it?” 

Draco pulled the present towards him with a sly smile. He pulled out the tissue paper carefully to find all his favourite sweets. Lemon drops, chocolate frogs, Bertie Botts, and his favourite muggle chocolates: milky lavender lindts and cadbury hazelnut bars. 

Like so many times before, Harry suddenly saw Narcissa in Draco, the refined posture and careful hands—the same way she had opened Harry’s first mothers' day present for her, and every one after, no matter how much she insisted he didn’t need to give her one. 

Yet Harry also saw that boy from Hogwarts, opening a parcel of sweets from his mother, stroking the feathers of his eagle owl. 

It wasn’t that Draco seemed as poncy or jovial as he had back at the Slytherin table, but perhaps his face was more open, perhaps some of the youthful naivety had slipped back into his features.

He finally picked up the card, eyebrows pinching as he watched the fairies dance in a circle, pale blue petals falling out of sight only to reappear as their dance repeated. 

His lips thinned into a line as he read, and then, he reached across the table to take Harry’s hand. 

“You promise no one else will be around today?” 

Harry nodded. “Of course, just you and I today.” 

Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, his entire face held tightly together. 

That was the thing about grieving—it rushed you when your guard was down. Something about the card had Draco’s face pulled into rigid lines, and Harry quickly busied himself making crepes as Draco put himself back together. 

Draco’s first birthday without Narcissa. There would be no celebrations, no floo calls, no dinner at the Manor. It would just be Harry and Draco having a next to normal day. Except that every so often Draco looked pinched. 

Sitting curled together in the living room reading, eating a lunch made with best wishes by Kreacher, letting cards pile up on the dining room table, leaving presents unopened by the sofa, going for a walk around the countryside for a bit of fresh air, ignoring more letters, ignoring well wishes, ignoring and ignoring and turning away until the only place that seemed safe was the piano room.

They sat pressed shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the wall beneath the window. 

Harry didn’t speak, and what needed to be said bubbled up on its own. 

“It feels wrong,” Draco let out, gnawing at his lip. “Why should I get to celebrate another wretched year when she’s—without—and I can’t believe we used to throw  _ parties _ for it.” He said it as if it was the most revolting notion he’d ever heard. “I mean the war, all of it, how?” 

Harry let his head fall back and watched the piano: something that didn’t move, didn’t feel, just played to the whims of the musician. 

“Your mother would want you to celebrate. She hid everything from you for a reason. She wanted you to keep on normally for as long as possible.” 

Draco slumped back. 

“As for the war...” Harry took Draco’s wrist and rubbed his thumb back and forth in a soothing line. “We should be living as best we can for the memory of those we lost. I mean, why should we let Voldemort ruin even more for us?” 

“You're right,” Draco whispered. Harry continued rubbing across that line and Draco’s voice somehow managed to sound even smaller. “I miss her. I’m still angry she didn’t tell me, but if I had known…” He dropped his head into his hands. “I would have spent so much more time with her. My last birthday… I would have had tea, anything.” 

“There’s no point to what ifs,” Harry sighed. He’d learnt that the hard way. 

Draco’s anger flared suddenly. “But she  _ chose _ not to tell me. Her final days and I wasn’t even  _ there _ .” 

He stood up abruptly, breaking Harry’s small point of contact, and stormed into the kitchen. 

This wasn’t a new topic of conversation. Being able to celebrate life with the death of war behind them was something he had been grappling with for a long time. He was pressing at old wounds like unhealed bruises, guilt flaying him open all over again.

All of it made Harry think of the ways it could sneak up on you. How even after the war, nothing was really safe. Even after settling into a life that felt right, grief found a ledge to haul itself in, to claw its way into their house. 

It wouldn’t be so bad—parents dying is one of the first harsh realities a child has to face, and if you’re Harry, it’s something that settles over you before you’re even aware what grieving or death is—except it makes him think of Draco. How easily his lover could be taken from him, how he couldn’t even picture wanting to live any semblance of a life if Draco wasn’t in it. 

When Harry walked into the kitchen, Draco stood staring at his reflection in the silver toaster. He pressed the bags under his eyes, touched the crows feet at their corners, traced the sharp line of his cheekbone. 

“I’m old.” 

“You’re not old, Draco.” 

“I’m getting wrinkles. I’m almost forty, where has my life even gone?”

“Draco…” 

The man shoved past Harry and into the drawing room. 

If he’d been trying to escape his reality, he’d made the wrong choice. 

Draco sank down in front of a pile of cards and presents—all moved into the drawing room by Kreacher—confronted by the reality of his aging. 

It really wasn’t that many, just a few from their friends, one from his old piano teacher, and another from Harry.

“We can look after dinner,” Harry murmured, kneeling down next to him and rubbing small comforting circles on Draco’s back. 

Draco picked up a card from Rose—streaks of red, black, and yellow marker depicting three smiling people holding hands. The words “Happy birthday uncle Draco” written in a bubbly font above them. 

Draco’s back shuddered beneath Harry’s palm, the soft paper crinkling in his grip, laboured breathing eventually turning into sobs, and he let himself be pulled under by grief. 

~~~

Narcissa sat in the music room, hands folded neatly in her lap, and watched her son. 

Draco scooted up to the piano. He was ten years old, blond hair loose around his ears (he started slicking it back a month before Hogwarts), his cheeks still holding a pinch of baby fat, his face only just transitioning into its familiar angles and points. He didn’t need supportive books anymore, and Narcissa could no longer pick him up and balance him on her hip like she used to. 

Draco took a deep breath, and then his hands (still so tiny in Narcissa’s mind—could he really reach a full chord now?) dancing across the keys as he played a Chopin piece, one he’d been practicing in secret for months, waiting for Narcissa’s birthday to perform just for her. 

Lucius’ hand was on her thigh, and he squeezed through her dress.

Draco’s playing felt like a deer standing alone in a field, sun slanting over dew spotted grass, the moon being visible in the daytime sky, the first sparks of a child’s magic. 

He had sat with his piano teacher for hours, perfecting his pacing and posture. He had practiced until his fingers ached. 

“What did you think?” Draco asked, sitting pressed against Narcissa’s side. 

“It was lovely, Draco. Thank you.” 

“I know it’s not jewelry like father always gets, but—” 

She ran a hand through his hair, knowing he soon might not allow her such simple affections. “No, Draco, this is much better. You worked hard, and I’m very proud of you.” 

“Mrs. Auclar thinks I should sign up for the next Kaufman International Wizarding Piano competition”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Narcissa smiled, smoothing down the front of Draco’s dress robes. “Monsieur Malfoy’s triumphant return to the stage.” 

“Will you and Father come?” 

At that moment, Lucius swept into the room, a silver gift box in hand.

“Of course we will.” 

On the mantle, three faces drawn in green ink smiled down on them. 

~~~

Draco’s face glowed in the flickering candlelight, smoothing out every harsh line, but accentuating the shadows that’d been splotched under his eyes for months. 

“Make a wish, love,” Harry murmured. They were sitting at the kitchen table—the dining room too opposing. 

Draco closed his eyes and inhaled. The flames stretched towards him. 

He exhaled, each candle going out in a puff of smoke. 

Harry didn’t ask what Draco’s wish had been.

They ate the cake in silence and then went up to bed, leaving the majority of Draco’s presents unopened. 

~~~

**July - One Month Ago, Six Months after Narcissa’s Death**

Fairy lights were strung up around the back garden, long tables bookending the event to create a mock dance floor on the grass. Harry and Draco stood together in the center, Draco’s head resting on Harry’s shoulder, Harry cupping the curve of Draco’s back, their hands around each other, careless for the people surrounding them.

It was the day before Harry’s birthday, a Saturday, and all their friends had joined them in the backyard for a little get together. Music drifted from their record player, a ballad of sorts, soft and slow, a voice fit for the forties coaxing couples towards each other. 

“Happy birthday,” Draco mumbled into Harry’s neck, breath a lovely warmth against the cold night air. 

Harry kissed the tip of Draco’s ear through his hair, breathing in the scent of lavender, lemon, and freshly cut grass. 

“Are you sniffing me in public?” Draco smirked, pinching Harry’s waist. 

“Git,” Harry laughed, snaking a hand under Draco’s shirt to feel his hips. “And on my birthday no less.” 

“It’s because it’s your birthday,” Draco replied. “Someone needs to keep that ego in check.”

Harry rolled his eyes affectionately. 

The song slowly faded out to be replaced with something more upbeat—a popular hit by the Lacewing Leps—and the dancing resumed anew, everyone gathering on the grass, drinks in hand, the moon watching over them with a subtle glow. 

While everyone was distracted by the catchy lyrics and hip swaying rhythm, Draco took Harry’s hand and led him off the grass to slip back into the house, careful not to let the screen door slam. 

“What are we doing?” Harry asked, voice low, as Draco led him towards the front of the house. 

“You’ll see,” Draco said, pulling Harry into the piano room. A smattering of fireflies had gotten in through the open window, and that, combined with the light of the moon, set the piano in an ethereal glow. 

Draco brought Harry to sit beside him on the bench, their shoulders a line of glorious contact.

He lifted the lid of the piano with reverence, running a finger along one of the smooth white keys. 

A firefly landed on Draco’s index finger, and Harry watched with wide eyes as Draco lifted it to his eyeline, examining the little lightning bug the way he would a piece of music. 

With a small shake of his hands, the firefly lifted back into the air to circle the piano with its fellows, and Draco placed his fingers gently on the keys. 

“Draco—” Harry started, but then Draco was playing. 

It started slow, a question, a musing, and Harry watched, enthralled, as the piece became an answer, a confession. The composition was slow in the same way morning sex was, where it wasn’t so much about insurmountable pleasure or getting fucked, but it also wasn’t really about making love; it was about shedding layers of sleep with your lover inside you, saying goodmorning in the way only two lovers could. 

This was Draco’s present to Harry. The long hours of practicing, the tension of the performance, and the admission of a thousand  _ good mornings  _ sighed against pillows, and  _ how are yous  _ moaned into the mattress, and  _ goodnights _ twisted in sheets. 

The party felt miles away when Draco played the last note. Harry let his hand drift to rest on Draco’s thigh, squeezing once, before his hand trailed higher. 

“My present to you,” Draco whispered as he closed the lid of the piano. 

“After all this time, you still remember?”

Draco’s smile was solemn. “I don’t think I could ever forget.” 

Harry reached up to cup Draco’s cheek, running his thumb along Draco’s cheekbones and tilting his face upwards. Draco’s cheeks were flushed, his gaze heated. Harry licked his lips. 

“This was the first song I ever heard you play.” 

Draco hummed in agreement. “Fitting it should be the first song I play since… my mother’s death.” 

“Draco…” 

“Please kiss me, Harry.” Draco’s voice was low with want, and it was all the convincing that Harry needed. He leaned forward, closing the gap between them, and captured Draco’s mouth in a passionate yet melancholy kiss. 

Draco reached under Harry’s shirt and dragged his nails down Harry’s spine, making the other man squirm under his touch. 

They stood up from the piano, reluctant to seperate, only for Harry to push Draco up against the wall, nudging Draco’s legs open with his knee. 

“Mm, Harry,” Draco gasped into Harry’s mouth as Harry palmed Draco’s hardening cock through his trousers. 

“Bedroom?” Harry asked, and Draco nodded, biting at Harry’s lower lip. 

They only made it into the hallway before Draco this time was pressing into Harry, working at the buttons of his shorts, Harry gripping Draco’s shoulders so tightly he thought he might snap in half. 

“Party… Upstairs…” Harry managed to get out, and then they were fumbling their way up the stairs and into their bedroom, falling onto their bed, hurrying to get clothes off, to be as close as physically possible. 

It was  _ happy birthday _ bitten into sensitive skin, _ I’m sorry _ swallowed down to the base, and  _ I am yours you are mine _ marked on every inch of bare skin. There was no good morning and no goodnight, just the unspoken implication that anything close to goodbye was unnecessary, because they would never leave each other. 

They returned to the party after midnight _ — _ Harry officially thirty-six years old _ — _ and it was just Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Pansy, Luna, and Blaise laying in the grass talking, staring up at the night sky. 

Draco took Harry’s hand and squeezed. Hard. 

And that was something like  _ I love you _ .

~~~

**August 5th, 2016**

“Ready?” Harry asked, popping into the kitchen to collect Draco, who was leaning against the counter with his eyes closed, empty cup on the marble beside him.

Something passed across Draco’s face, furrowing his pale brows, but it left as soon as it came, and he followed Harry out of the kitchen and into the piano room. 

The sun was no longer streaming directly into the space, but the room was still bright with natural light, and as Draco sat at the piano, he tried to keep his breaths even. He knew this piece, he was ready. He held the music in his mind like a ball of sunshine, and refused to let it go.

Next to the piano, Harry let go of the violin, wandlessly setting it to float in front of him. The bow readied itself as if about to play. 

Harry and Draco shared a final look, one of such intensity that it was hard to break. 

Harry asking to be spoken to, Draco asking to be heard, and the both of them:  _ I am here with you, I am ready for you, and I always will be.  _

And just like that, the suspended violin began to play, a forlorn and haunting sound. With a featherlight touch Draco joined in.

Slowly, Draco and the violin were absorbed in the music. He became unaware of the beads of sweat collecting at his forehead, or the sounds of summer outside the room; he was enveloped in this new world, matching the feeling of the violin as it played with a mind of its own, taking in Harry’s magic like a life force, imbuing it with a personality and tempo that as an accompanist, Draco had to match and be ready for. 

Harry himself was waving the black walnut wand like a composer. A purple-white glow reaching out from each note that Draco and the violin produced—threads of magic travelling from the instruments towards the wand—twisting with each note as the song’s first movement darkened. 

The air in the room was reckless and hot. Draco thought of his partnership with Harry, how they had developed this kinship, a trading of music for magic, magic for music; of their hatred, and what it stemmed from, and what it grew to be. The story of how a dark wizard turned professional piano player met a chosen wizard turned wand maker, and how they fell into domesticity like two missing puzzle pieces. 

Draco flung the memories outwards. 

As he and Harry’s magical violin began the second movement, he painted with his music: fields illuminated with sunlight, the tangling of moans and droning cicadas, a warm breeze playing with curls of hair. 

Harry raised his arms, making the strings of magic reaching from the piano rise like waves, crashing down as Draco painted dandelions and scars, flayed skin and violets, trailing slashes like forget-me-nots and the lips which kissed them softly.

He and Harry breathed heavily, together, air tensing with promise as they imbued every spark of meaning into their song and magic. 

Flashes of daisy-yellow and violet, notes slowing to a seductive softness, and then the violin with panic reaching a crescendo, blood red and plum and royal blue. Draco’s fingers traveled fast and sure, following the movement, burnt orange and maroon and navy. Strokes of imagery, just like when he and Harry had first bought this house, renovated it with their own hands; a place that was their own, which no one could take from them. 

Each image, each wave of Harry’s wand, each note of Draco’s piano, a solemn remembrance, a promise to the future. 

By the time they reached the final movement, sweat was sticking Draco’s shirt to his back and Harry was panting with the effort to contain the manifested music which circled around him. 

With a final burst of effort and energy, Draco and the violin brought the piece to a close, letting the notes ebb out in pink and lavender, the final threads of music. 

As the dust settled around them, Draco posed with his fingers hovering above the keys while Harry twisted the wand and collected each thread, wrapping it around until the wand glowed blindingly bright. 

This was the part that Draco loved to watch. 

With the finesse of a master at work, Harry slowly, carefully, brought the music into the wand, each note carefully sliding through into the wood, to build and weave itself into a magical core made of pure music and emotion. 

This was Harry’s talent, a wand making ability never seen before, the likes of which were coveted by the most famous of witches, wizards, and wixes, but which Harry provided only to those who needed them most. Wands that spoke to artistry and talent, to passion and dedication. 

Harry poured ounces of love and hard work into every wand he made, and with a single touch, you could tell which wand belonged to you, they resonated that deeply. 

When the core finally settled within the black walnut, and the purple light of the room dispersed, Harry slumped to the floor, the violin that had stopped playing slowly drifting to sit on the ground. 

Despite being sweaty and drained and needing a hot shower, both Draco and Harry rarely felt happier than when they finished creating a wand core. Draco got up slowly and moved to sit with Harry.

They wrapped their arms around each other and sat on the hardwood floor.

A rumble of thunder in the distance signaled an oncoming summer storm.

With the windows open, Harry and Draco lay on the floor, pleasantly uncomfortable, and in the form of a warm rain, finally let the summer in. 

**Author's Note:**

> ☀️ This fic is part of the GWB summer Vibes gift exchange. If you'd like to spread the love, [consider reblogging this tumblr post!](https://triggerlil.tumblr.com/post/629884030151688192)


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